


What Lingers

by redcat512



Category: What Remains (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Fix-It, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Mental Health Issues, Post-Canon, Spoilers, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 20:46:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcat512/pseuds/redcat512
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After, she's held together only with spit and prayers. After, she's the most alone she's ever been in her life. After, she's on the edge of crazy - or maybe she's passed it long ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Lingers

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS for the last episode, of course. STILL CAN’T DEAL WITH THIS SHIT. *sob*  
> Also this was SUPPOSED to be a “…together, they fight crime!” sort of story, but alas, it didn’t want to behave. My head-canon is still that that happened, but this ficlet turned out a lot more emo than I'd planned.  
> Don't judge me for the title! IDK!

The first time it happens, Vidya thinks she’s dreaming. Or hallucinating. Too much stress –  yes, that must be it.

She cleans up the shattered mug and shakes herself off.

* * *

She hates the building, rather. Can’t get the image of Len’s blood out of the hallway floor, not even after the carpets have been replaced and the walls bleached clean. She stays because she can’t afford to move right now.  For one thing, then she’d have to talk to Michael about getting the last of his things, and she’s not ready to talk to him right now. She’s not sure she ever will be. Maybe in time, because she’s never been good at keeping grudges, but right now she takes comfort in anger, lets it bubble over into teary rage sometimes when it’s preferably to teary hopelessness.

* * *

The second time, she’s rocking the baby to sleep and the air suddenly chills around her when she hears it again, only can’t very well let the baby meet the same fate as the mug, so she keeps a tight hold and tries to tell herself she’s not going crazy. There’s no way that’s contagious, because if it is, she’s pretty stuffed, isn’t she, living in _this_ building of all places?

The third time, she’s drifting off to sleep when she hears it again, clearer than before, less deniable, and she snaps awake on full alert, heart pounding.

The room is illuminated only by the glow of the alarm, but she peers into the darkness, trying to quieten her breathing, listening.

 _Miss Khan_ , breathes a creaky whisper again, like he’d get sometimes, when he was tired and feeling particularly world-weary.

“Is-” she croaks out, mouth dry with fear, “is someone there?”

Because of course trespassers always announce themselves once asked nicely, she berates herself.

She reaches under the pillow where she’s taken to keeping a pen knife, because you don’t just go to sleep in the building that seems to draw murderers and thieves like honey does bees.

 _Don’t be afraid._ The voice whispers, and this time there’s no actual way she’s imagining it, no, that’s definitely Len’s dry mumble. _It’s only me._

She unfolds the knife and grabs for her mobile on the bedside cupboard, because she’s never without it nowadays, and she’s got 999 on speed dial like it needs its own speed dial, but it makes her feel a tiny bit better so she does it anyway.

“This isn’t funny!” She calls out, a little louder, less worried about waking the baby and more worried about being murdered in her own bed because that’s a real thing to her, now, that’s something that she can believe capable of happening to her. “I’m calling the police!”

 _Miss Khan, it’s only me, Len._ The voice takes on a note of desperation. _Please don’t be frightened._

She switches on the bedside lamp, but there’s no one in the room with her.

The voice flutters through the room. _I’ll try back later, okay?_

She’s still gripping the phone and knife when the room warms again and she hasn’t even realised she’d been shivering, but that’s probably the cold sweat, and she’s imagining things, only she _definitely_ heard something. Unless she’s dreaming.

It takes her at least another four hours with the lamp on to fall asleep again.

* * *

The next morning she catches the bus down to the department store and buys a dictaphone because she wants to prove to herself that she’s not going crazy.

She’s  _not_.

* * *

She takes the dictaphone with her everywhere inside the flat.

Nothing happens for a whole day, and she’s almost given up and written herself off as going round the bend when she hears it again.

But this point, she’s half-convinced herself she’d invented the whole thing, so it takes her a few seconds to even remember the recorder.

 _Is this a better time?_ The voice is saying, polite, careful, just like Len always was, and she’s not even sure what it said before that, aside from probably her name.

She takes a deep breath, accepts the fact that if this is a practical joke, she’s basically losing it by doing this and replies with a low : “Len?”

_Oh good, you can hear me. I wasn’t sure, you know._

She thinks she can hear a smile in the voice. His voice. In his voice.

“Len?” She repeats, whispering, and her eyes start to sting. “Len, am I going crazy?”

 _No, no, it’s okay, sweetheart._ He consoles her, and it’s the same voice he used when she came back from the hospital a single mother and had burst into tears because she didn’t even know where Michael had put away the sheets and things for the crib. _I think. I think you’re okay. It’s just, I’m supposed to be dead, only I’m not, really, and you can hear me, and you **might** be crazy, because I suppose I’m not as good a judge of that as I thought I was, but I don’t **think** you are._

She had no idea how much she’d missed that voice until now.

She hears a sob and realises that it’s her own. “ _Len_.”

_Yes?_

“Len, I can’t _do_ this. I can’t do this alone.” She chokes out, barely a whisper, and she hadn’t realised that was true until now either, because she’s been holding that thought at bay, forcing herself not to crumble, forcing herself to keep it together for the baby’s sake.

She bites out an empty laugh. “I probably _am_ going crazy. I mean, I’m talking to my dead neighbour. That’s about as crazy as it gets, right?”

_You **can** do this. You’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for._

The certainty in his voice breaks apart the walls she’s built to proper herself up and she crumples to the floor and cries.

* * *

There’s nothing on the recording but Vidya’s own voice when she checks, but she doesn’t mind too much.

If she’s going crazy, there are worse ways to do it. She talks to Patricia, and without alarming her unduly, asks to be checked in on every once in a while. After the last few months, Patricia doesn’t even blink before she agrees. “ _Of course_. I can’t believe we’re still not doing something like that. We should have a check-up system for everyone in here.”

Patricia wanders off to draw up a roster of check-ups and to rope the others in – those that were brave enough to move in to a building with so much death. Elaine and Peggy’s flat stays empty.

Now that Vidya’s made sure that if she goes off the deep end any more that someone will watch out for the baby, she settles down to drown in her madness.

* * *

The madness never comes.

Or, it does, and she’s not aware of it, being mad – since mad people never seem to know they’re mad – but wondering if wondering about madness makes her more or less likely to be mad is driving her mad, so she stops.

Len talks to her. It’s nothing consequential, he just tells her stories, stories of being a copper, stories about his brother, and his wife, and his childhood.

She talks, too. She talks about everything but Michael. She skirts around him like he’s the elephant in the room, but no, the elephant is Len’s deadness, only they talk about that too, sometimes.

 _I think maybe I have unfinished business_ , he says one time, _isn’t that how it normally goes?_

“Well, yeah, but those are films. They’re not real.” She argues.

 _-she says to the dead man,_ Len mutters jokingly.

“Besides, what unfinished business do you have? Elaine’s dead. Elizabeth and Mr Sellers are in prison.” She doesn’t mention that everyone he loves is dead, that he has no one left to hang around for, because that’s a truth that hangs heavy in the air between them, partly because that could also be said of her, for all that she’s got her parents who visit sometimes to coo over the baby and to look disapprovingly around at the empty flat.

 _Well, there’s you_.

“Me?” She asks, surprised, because they’re friends- _were_ friends, but really, who is she to him? The girl whose boyfriend found a dead body? The girl who, from some perspectives, got him killed?

 _Yes, you._  He says firmly. _I got you mixed up in this business because I wouldn’t leave it alone. If I had, maybe-_

“You don’t get to apologise, you’re _dead_.” She bites out with a crooked smile. “That pretty much balances out any past misdeeds. You get a bit of a free pass there, I’m afraid.”

She hears a huff of what might be laughter.

 _I supposed we’ll have to agree to disagree,_ he says wryly. _However, since I have no other pressing concerns, if you don’t mind, I’d like to stick around and keep an eye out. You are welcome to say no, though. I don’t know that I **can** go anywhere else, but I could try. I don’t want to intrude._

“No, it’s fine.” She sighs. “If I’m losing my mind, I may as well have some company while I do it.”

* * *

Michael comes by to visit on the baby’s first birthday. Vidya doesn’t hold a party or anything, because she’s just gone back to work and she’s always tired after work, and the baby is always cranky after day care.

There’s a moment when Michael is holding the baby, and Vidya is clutching her mug of tea like it’s the only thing keeping her together – which, it probably is – and Michael smiles at her and steps forward, baby held out as a peace offering, like he’s his to give.

Instead of responding, she turns away to make Michael a cup of tea that he doesn’t want, because he’s always been a coffee drinker, but she doesn’t have any in the house, and anyway, the least he can do is drink what he’s been given.

“Why do you stay here?” Michael asks, when it’s clear she’s not going to smile and forgive him just because he’s holding their son and pulling the puppy dog eyes that drew her to him in the first place. “Isn’t this place full of enough bad memories?”

The electric kettle boils and switches itself off. She reaches for the cupboard to find the sugar. She’s not sure she remembered to buy any, actually, but Michael won’t drink tea without milk and sugar, assuming he’ll drink it at all.

“It’s not so bad.” She lies, and doesn’t tell him that the only reason she stays is because at least in here the devils she already knows, and out there are monsters she can only imagine. Plus, Len’s here, and sure, he’s probably a figment of her imagination, but she doesn’t want to take the chance. Len’s never followed her to the shops or to work. She’s never even heard him out on the stairs, no, it’s only ever inside the flat, almost always when she’s alone – which, to be honest, is almost always these days.

He doesn’t look satisfied with that answer, so she vaguely adds: “You have to face your demons sometime.”

He tries to kiss her on the cheek when he leaves, but she ducks out of the way and pretends to wipe an invisible smudge off the baby’s face where Michael’s holding him.

“Can I come see you again?” Michael asks plaintively. “Him, I mean. You. Both of you, I suppose. Or is this going to be a once-a-year thing?”

She takes the baby from him where he’s holding him out. “Yes, of course you can. I’m a bit busy at the moment, what with work and everything, but I’ll ring you when I can.”

“I could watch him, sometimes, while you’re working?” He suggest hopefully. “Save you a bit on day care?”

“Yeah, sometime.” She agrees vaguely, because she _knows_ that he wants what’s best for the baby, she does, but somehow she still has a hard time trusting him with her son.

After he leaves, she puts the baby to bed, and pours herself a rare glass of wine. She drops down onto the couch and lets herself cry softly for a little. Not because she wants him back, but because she misses being happy, and because it’s not exactly easy, being alone, raising a child alone, living in an empty flat, and a nearly empty building, at that.

 _You managed brilliantly, love._ Comes Len’s familiar disembodied voice. _Sorry for eavesdropping. I wanted to make sure he was- that he behaved himself._

She lets out something that might optimistically be called a laugh. Of course Len was listening out.

 _I know it’s hard right now,_ he continues, _but you’ll get there, in the end._

She bursts into a fresh round of tears – and isn’t that all she seems to be doing these days? The nurse at the hospital said it’s normal, but it’s been a year and it seems like her hormones still haven’t settled down. Or maybe that’s just her life now, crying at the drop of a hat.

Only they’re closer to happy tears this time, because if nothing else, at least she’s got an imaginary friend to keep her company, and yeah, that makes it a little better.

* * *

Another six months pass, and Vidya realises she can’t spend the rest of her life as a receptionist. When she’d had Michael, it had been fine, because her life had revolved around him, and they’d had a dual income to make up for the fact that she was on minimum wage. She could ask her parents for help, but she’s got too much pride for that, wants to show that she can make it by herself.

Now though, she’s got the baby in her life, but she’s going crazy with boredom, crazy at the idea that she’ll spend the next four decades answering phones and ordering stationery.

“Did you like being a copper?” She asks Len one evening after she’s put the baby to sleep.

He snorts. **_Like_** _it? I hated every minute._

“Uh huh. “ She nods. “That’s why you kept doing your job for free after retiring, is it?”

He mutters something sarcastic she doesn’t quite make out.

“What was that? I didn’t hear a denial.” She teases.

 _Why do you want to know, anyway?_ He grumbles.

“Oh, you know,” she replies with a hand wave, “just want to hear some more stories about your glory days.”

* * *

“I think I want to be a police officer.” She blurts out one day while making dinner.

 _What on earth do you want to go and do **that** for?_ Len grouses. _It’s a thankless, awful job. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Why would you throw it away on people who’ll never appreciate the blood, sweat and tears you’ll no doubt put in?_

“Oh, shush, you misery guts.” She admonishes. “I’d be good at it, I think. And it would give me a sense of purpose. I mean, I have the baby, of course, but aside from that – what am I doing on this earth? I want to try to make it a better place before I- well, you know.”

 _Purpose means nothing if you have no one around you to make you happy_ , he argues. _Purpose won’t keep you warm and fed and happy. Purpose won’t help you’re at your lowest._

“Yes, but I have you, don’t I?” She responds distractedly as she stirs the soup.

She’s greeted with stunned silence. Eventually, Len responds: _Oh, sweetheart, I’m a used-up old man – and dead, at that. I’m no use to you. You need to get out in the world of the living._

She tries to blink away the loneliness that suddenly threatens to overwhelm her. She forgets, sometimes.

“Isn’t being a police officer a perfect place to get involved in the land of the living?” She finally asks.

 _Oh fine,_ he finally mutters, _have it your way. But I’m warning you, it’s not like it looks on the telly – it’s not all fun and games and office romances. It can be hard, and boring, and awful. Sometimes you won’t get a chance to catch some shut eye. Sometimes you won’t be **able** to sleep after the day you had at work. Sometimes you’ll be so sick with horror that even the idea of quitting and burning your uniform and badge is too mild a reaction._

“I know.” She says, swallowing. “I know.”

He sighs. _Of course you do, love, of course you do. I’m sorry for forgetting._

* * *

“I got in!” She squeals as soon as she gets home. “They called me, and I passed all the tests, Len!”

 _Congratulations, love._ He sounds genuinely pleased, for all his reservations.  _Go on, ring your mum and dad, I know they’ll be proud of you._

“Oh, yes, I should! I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

She dials the number and a second before her mother picks up, she hears Len say: _I’m so proud of you._

* * *

Two and a half years later and it’s her last day completing the IPLDP training.

 _Don’t say I didn’t warn you_ , Len grumbles as she’s making breakfast. _But I’m so proud of you I could burst. You’re going to be absolutely brilliant._

“Thank you, Len.” She smiles and hopes he can see, or at least feel how grateful she is for every moment of encouragement. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

 _Nonsense._ He snorts.

“I’m serious!” She laughs, giddy with excitement and a hint of nerves. “You’ve been a rock. You’re my hero. You’re my _inspiration_.” She waves the spatula in the air dramatically.

 _I think maybe that wasn’t water in your glass._ He argues. _Someone’s been at the gin a bit early._

She shakes her head in amusement. “Len, you’re the greatest. Thank you, for everything.”

 _Oh, off with you. You’re going to be late._ He grumbles.

She laughs and goes to see if her son’s ready for kindergarten yet.

* * *

Vidya goes out for celebratory drinks with some of the others at the end of the day, and picks up her son from Michael’s. He congratulates her, and there’s an awkward moment when his girlfriend comes home before Vidya’s left, but it’s fine, it’s okay.

“Mummy’s a police officer now.” She proudly announces to her boy, and he grins at her and asks if that means they can get ice cream. They do.

They meet Patricia and her baby girl on the trip up the stairs, and Patricia gives her a huge hug. Sally from number five wanders past while they’re chatting and also gives her congratulations after Patricia strongarms Vidya into sharing the news.

She puts on some cartoons on the TV and starts making dinner, humming happily to herself.

The two of them eat dinner, and it’s not until she’s put her son to bed that she realises that the flat is awfully quiet tonight, and awfully empty. Only, it’s not really empty, not anymore, it hasn’t been in a few years, but suddenly there’s more room than there was.

She wanders around trying to find a cold spot.

“Len?” She calls out. “You around?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s not always present, but he always comes when she calls.

“Len?”

She wanders into the bedroom and sits down on the bed, suddenly tired. She debates going to bed as she is, but she’s had a long day and needs a shower really badly.

She turns on the water and waits for it to get hot. She realises she’s out of fresh towels and goes to get some more from the linen cupboard.

When she comes back, there’s writing on the fogged up mirror.

_I think it’s time for me to go._

_I wish you all the best. Goodbye and good luck._

There’s a kind of empty, unsurprised resignation in her heart.

Her throat clenches painfully and her eyes sting. She sits down on the toilet and clutches the towel as the water runs and runs.

“Goodbye, Len.” She says out loud and tries not to cry.


End file.
